


Blessed are the Righteous

by fereldanwench



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crisis of Faith, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fereldanwench/pseuds/fereldanwench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor and Cullen bond over mutual struggles with faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Melisande stood in the hallway, dark and lonely, biting at her thumbnail as she stared into the room.

“I believe it was intended to be a private chantry,” Cassandra had speculated when they first arrived at the fortress. Three rows of pews and a life-sized statue, robed and adorned with the blazing crown indicative of Andraste, seemed to agree with that assessment.

As they began establishing the stronghold, clearing out the dusty, broken furniture, filling repositories with poultices and arms, and laying claims to bedrooms, Melisande avoided the small chapel. She’d endure the long route and excess stairs from the dining hall to her bed chambers, and when Vivienne asked what the plans were for the holy annex, she shrugged and asked for news from Orlais instead.

The Chantry’s presence, its requisition to her new home, was a strain on her conscience.

But that night, legs and spirit fatigued after a grueling battle, Melisande had given into the promise of a short jaunt past the room. She had told herself if she kept her pace, if she focused on the latest report from Redcliffe, the tenderness of her feet, Iron Bull and Sera bantering about mayhem and elven catapults, she’d pass the chapel and ignore its bait.

A flickering reflection of the corridor’s sconces had bounced off the hard edges of Andraste’s halo.

The cursory glance into the otherwise dark chantry had been enough to coax Melisande to a halt.

She didn’t dare step through the threshold, but even from the hallway, she could see the chapel had suffered less neglect and decay than the rest of the keep. The fine wood of the pews had a gentle gleam, dimmed by a thin layer of dust. The candle stands were free from rust, and the single tapestry with the Chantry’s blazing sun had only a few holes from hungry moths. A faint aroma of incense stirred in the stale air.

“Madame Inquisitor.” Melisande spun around and lifted her brows at the sight of a hooded Leliana.“You seem enthralled by the chapel.”

The enigmatic woman stepped forward, her boots almost silent across the stone floor, and peered inside. Leliana smiled with a warmth that unsettled Melisande.

“I was thinking, perhaps, we could use this room for additional storage. The armory is getting full and—”

“—But perhaps some of the others would appreciate a refuge? A sanctuary, no? We could always find other areas to house weaponry.”

Melisande tensed her jaw, but she thanked Leliana for her input and made her leave.

Her dreams, already infected with the sallow flashes of the Breach, were infused with barbed halos and blazing pyres.

She sought the counsel of Cassandra, who sternly reminded Melisande of the Inquisition’s connections, historical and present, with the Chantry; turning a place of reverence into a storeroom for war would be ill advised. Josephine suggested maintaining a chapel could even curry favor with the powerful clerics in the Grand Cathedral. Sera snorted and rolled her eyes, Iron Bull shrugged before downing a pint of ale, and Solas asked her how her “Fade hand” was faring.

“It would be appreciated, Madame Inquisitor,” was Cullen’s answer when she asked if he’d prefer the chapel to remain. He cleared his throat and gestured to a stack of parchments listing an abundance of required supplies. “If the space is required for another purpose, however, I understand there are more pressing matters we must tend to.”

The annex was allowed to retain its original purpose.

Melisande removed the crimson tapestry that hung over the hearth, deciding the symbol was too bold for a place of mutual worship and worrying that its tattered state might offend the Andrastians among her team; she saw it burned in accordance with Chantry practices. She allowed the statue to remain, however, uncertain if there would even be a sacred means of disposing an icon in perfect condition.

Leliana and Cassandra made frequent but short visits, kneeling before their prophet and whispering prayers. Melisande even caught Iron Bull admiring the shrine, and he explained he could appreciate silence and solitude every now and then. He also explained that he could appreciate the shapely figure of Andraste’s statue, winning a laugh from Melisande.

In spite of his encouragement, however, Cullen had yet to be present at the chapel. She knew he was an early riser and considered the likelihood that he worshiped in the hours before the sun rose, but his absence nagged at her. Why would he ask that it remain if he never intended to use it?

Idling the halls well past midnight, Melisande noticed a soft light flickering from the chapel annex. Her movements fell into a familiar stealth, her steps light and nearly silent as she edged to the doorway.

Inside she saw Cullen, standing with his hands clasped before his armored chest. He was silent, but she discerned he was mouthing words by the subtle twitches of his jaw. Melisande leaned against the door frame, arms crossed and forehead resting against the cold stone.

She recalled her silent prayers. Kneeling over her bed, fingers interlocked, mouthing for forgiveness, pleading to the Maker that she’d be good and holy if her father would come back, if her mother would stop drinking, if the grapes would go bad so no more wine could be made. They were prayers that never made a difference.

Melisande shuffled her feet, no longer feeling compelled to conceal her presence. Cullen spun around, and she was immediately hit with guilt for intruding upon his private time with the Maker.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked with a wrinkled brow.

“No, not at all. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude—I just saw the light, and my curiosity was piqued.”

She stepped into the room, taking in the elements of her environment. The polished wood of the pews, the red pillared candles, the small fire pit, the gleaming statue of Andraste. Melisande wrapped her arms around herself and let her gaze linger on the effigy.

“Are you a very religious man, Ser Cullen?” she asked, her gaze never leaving the meticulously carved effigy. Her eyes roved over every edge and curve, every recess and bump, squinting at light glaring off the sharp edges of the crown.

“I have my convictions.”

Melisande permitted herself a sheepish smile at her social transgression. Most in Thedas observed the Chantry’s teachings, but she knew it was still impolite to question another about their beliefs. Particularly someone who was all but a stranger.

“Forgive me.” Melisande looked at Cullen, seeking his blue-flecked stare, but now he remained fixated on the idol. “I meant no offense."

“I am an Andrastian,” he clarified before the silence became too uncomfortable. Cullen shifted his weight and met her gaze. “I believe in her teachings.”

“And in the teachings of the Chantry?” The words spilled from her lips without hesitation.

He fidgeted, needlessly straightening the fine silks wrapped around his chestplate. 

“You would differentiate the two?” If her crude question upset Cullen, he maintained a level tone.

Still, Melisande crossed social boundaries. He had come here, alone, to pray, to find some solace in a world that was tearing itself apart. It was selfish of her to deny him that privilege.

"I don’t know," Melisande admitted, distant. She gave him a terse, apologetic nod. "Once again, forgive me. I shall leave you to your prayers."

She turned around swiftly.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said behind her. She paused at the doorway, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Maker guide you.”

His blessing lingered with her as she walked to her chambers, a little reminder of the faith she thought she had long abandoned.


	2. Chapter 2

_To the Blessed Herald of Andraste._

Melisande frowned at the neat penmanship, ruing the evident care that crafted each curve and point of the letters. Her dark eyes persisted, flickering back and forth across the ink, until she sighed. It was the desperate plea of a mother, beseeching Melisande to impart a blessing on her sick child.

_For surely if anyone could save my son, it would be the Herald of Andraste herself._

She dropped the parchment on her rickety wooden desk, adding to the pile of another dozen or so letter addressed similarly. Melisande suspected a few were less reverent and more condemning: rants and threats from the Chantry’s faithful, promising eternal suffering in this life or the next, for Melisande’s hubris of claiming such an appellation. Most days those correspondences were easy to ignore—Melisande found it far more difficult to console those who thought she was capable of something more than glowing in the dark—but other days, it was all she could do to keep from composing her own manifesto and explaining in detail how that title was never her idea. She agreed with her detractors: she was no Herald of Andraste.

Melisande had never even been fully convinced Andraste and her tale had been anything other than an allegory the Chantry used to manipulate the common folk, much less that she could have somehow been a chosen one guided by the so-called Bride of the Maker.

A beam of sunlight pierced through the still-shattered window in her study, light spilling onto her desk and illuminating the tattered rug beneath it. Melisande mumbled a quick curse under her breath, realizing that she had lost track of time trying to catch up on the slew of letters that arrived daily. A gloved hand reached for the cavalier hat that hung on the back of the wobbly chair near the desk, and she plopped it over her head before twisting the knob on the door. It stuck, and she grimaced, pulling and twisting with excessive force. When the door finally swung open, the Commander, fist raised to knock, greeted her with a similar surprise.

“Madame Inquisitor,” he said, immediately dropping his hand and lowering his head in reverence.

Her hat was still off balance, she realized. Melisande pulled it over her head, her quick fingers straightening the loose strands of hair before he came up.

“Commander,” she replied, straining to match his tone. Although they had weekly meetings with the other advisors and dined in a group most evenings, she hadn’t spoken privately with her military advisor since her uncomfortable intrusion into the Chantry. A lingering embarrassment threatened to break her already dubious pretense of authority. “Is there something you needed? I’m afraid I’m late for a council with the local nobility and merchants.”

“I had hoped to speak with you regarding an urgent matter,” Cullen said. He sucked in his breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “A delicate matter.”

“I see.” Curiosity beckoned Melisande, urging her to press the matter, but duty won over intrigue. “The assembly is only expected to last until midday. Can it wait a couple of hours?”

His lashes lowered. “Thank you.”

They separated in the corridor, dark from lack of windows and illuminated only with dimly glowing runes. Melisande stole a glance over her shoulder just in time to see Cullen pausing, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his head. He resumed his steps quickly, but the gesture stayed with her as she strutted to the throne room of Skyhold.

As it would be the site of the Inquisitions interactions with the rest of the world, the large hall had acquired more resources than the rest of the keep. It was still dark; the stained glass windows desperately in need of a scrubbing inside and out. Many of the embellishments—the sconces, the sculptures, the reliefs depicting battles and honoring long irrelevant heroes—spread across the room were tarnished or out of fashion, but Vivienne had been able to call in a favor to replace the carpets and update the upholstery on most chairs. With a hefty amount of dusting and scrubbing, the room almost looked presentable.

Melisande followed the long, narrow carpet through the hall and up the stairs to her place on the throne. Her hand immediately shot to her mouth, giving into her ages-old habit of chewing on her nails until teeth met warm leather of her glove. She felt ill-suited to sit in a position of power, literally or metaphorically, but she mustered the mental strength to ease into the extravagant chair. Wiggling, Melisande sought a comfortable position in the hard, cold seat. Eventually she leaned back, propping her left ankle up on her right knee.

“That’s not very lady-like, Miss Trevelyan.”

Melisande turned and saw Josephine rounding the throne's dais, writing board in hand.

“Good. I’m not a lady,” Melisande retorted with a warm smile. “I’m a soldier.”

Josephine smiled in return, a delicate curve laced with a subtle reprimand. Melisande blinked slowly in protest, but conceded to the silent command. She gripped the armrests and pulled herself upright, mentally cursing the hard, cold metal that chilled her legs through the thick leather of her duster. The diplomat seemed pleased with the adjustment, but there was still something in expression that conveyed discontent. Melisande remembered Viviene and Josephine questioning her headgear, the Antivan insisting that she looked more like a pirate than a ranger, but Melisande was only so willing to compromise. She pulled the hat tighter around her forehead.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” Cullen’s plea came to the forefront of her mind. “Others apparently need my attention today as well.”

With a snap of Josephine’s fingers, the massive double doors groaned open, and a line of Skyhold’s local notables trickled into the room.

She was immensely grateful for the diplomat’s presence once the delegation was underway. Melisande supposed she was smart enough—in spite of her misgivings about the institution, she had done well in her Chantry-provided education and had often been commended on her quick thinking while serving Ostwick’s forces—but making decisions with potentially severe political ramifications was new territory. She made the effect to listen with a dignified stoicism, discreetly glancing in Josephine’s direction for guidance only a few times. Some matters, like the opening and protecting trade routes that would interfere with farmland, would require later deliberation and negotiation, while other matters dealing with irrefutable petty theft were quickly resolved.

A petty argument between two local bakers, each insisting the one stole the other’s recipe for the best sweet roll Empress Celene had tasted, was only rewarded with a judgmental lift of her brow and immediate dismissal.

_The world is tearing itself apart_ , she mused, _and people are concerned over who gets claim to the title of “Best Pastries in Thedas”?_

“You handled yourself well,” Josephine remarked as the last of their audience strolled down the large hall. Her quill squeaked across the parchment and wood as she scribbled a note. “I daresay you’re a natural at this.”

“That was exhausting,” Melisande dismissed the compliment. She rose and rubbed her backside, trying to regain feeling after nearly two hours sitting in the austere throne. “Would it be inappropriate to have a glass of wine with lunch?”

Josephine smiled down at her notepad, still penning notes and observations from the congregation, and lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “In Antiva, we would have been drinking brandy since the first guest arrived.”

Melisande grinned and trotted down the stairs to meet her advisor. “What do you think our chances are of convincing our new vassals to indulge in Antivan tradition?”

“Provide the wine first, and they won’t need any convincing,” Josephine replied. They shared another smile.

Melisande forewent the wine, but she did stop by the kitchen on the way to her study and tore off a handful of freshly baked bread. She savored each warm, soft bite and the quiet walk, hearing the occasional murmur of crew and the muted clanking troops training with their swords. The air had warmed considerably since the morning, and Melisande unhooked a few buttons around her neck with one hand. As she rounded the corner that lead to her study, she saw Cullen leaning into the open doorway of her study, hands clasped behind his back. 

“You may go in, Commander,” she said from across the hall.

She pushed the door shut with a forceful click before taking her place behind the desk; eyeing the messy stacks of parchment and dried inkwell, Melisande wished she had thought of cleaning the mess before inviting him in.

"What did you need to speak with me about?"

Cullen shifted on his feet, and his shoulders visibly stiffened. She braced herself for an unpleasant report. 

"Our numbers have grown," he began, alleviating some of her tension. "Templars seeking refuge from corrupted orders have pledged their allegiance to you. They're a well-trained lot, very resilient."

"I suspect I shouldn't consider that good news just yet?"

"How familiar are you with the requirements of the Order?"

Melisande shrugged, a little taken aback by his question. "As familiar as anyone, I suppose. Military training, devotion to the Chantry..." Her eyes lifted to the rim of her hat as she deliberately considered her next words. "The _guardianship_ of mages."

"Very diplomatic," Cullen replied with a flash of smirk, and Melisande offered a lean smile in return. He cleared his throat before continuing. "What do you know about lyrium?"

"Blue, dwarves mine it, templars use it to counteract magic. I assume there's a point to be made here?"

"It's highly addictive."

"Ah," was all Melisande could muster in response, her mind deciphering his implication.

A tense silence filled the room. She recalled Vivienne questioning Cullen's presence in the Inquisition, hinting that templar's often had a life-long dependency on the Chantry, but Melisande paid little heed to the comment at the time. The Seeker had assured Melisande of his qualifications, promising that any enduring loyalties to the Chantry would pose no problem, and she had no reason to doubt Cullen's abilities to lead their soldiers.

"I was under the impression Pentaghast had worked out an arrangement for your particular needs."

"She has been very generous in seeing that my supply is arranged," Cullen replied matter-of-factly. "I am concerned, however, about our new surge of recruits."

Melisande rubbed her forehead, her fingers bumping against the wide brim of her hat, and she tossed it on to her desk, knocking a few letters from the pile. Cullen quickly knelt to retrieve them, tapping them against the palm of his hand before gently placing them away in their own neat stack from the disorderly pile.

“I understand our current standing with the Chantry might make this difficult,” he continued, “But we need to maintain this expansion. We need seasoned soldiers now more than ever, and I’m confident these recruits will be worth the investment.”

“And why didn’t you bring this up during our last advisement?” Melisande inquired.

“Former templars struggle to find legitimate refuge anywhere. Even the Grey Wardens will sooner accept rebel mages than ex-templars,” Cullen said. His hand lifted quickly as if gesturing at her, and then fell back to his side. “Even here there is… resistance."

Her eyebrow twitched, not missing his insinuation. Whether he was referring to some of their other companions, or directly to her misstep in the chapel nights earlier, however, she was unable to discern.

“I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken."

"I only mean to say that I believe you'll have a more sympathetic audience if you broach the subject.”

Melisande turned from him and crossed her arms, peering at the vivid slivers of blue sky that jutted in between the shards of the window's broken glass. _The sky had been clear on the day of the conclave, too_ , she remembered absently. Her left hand came up to her neck, tugging at the necklace caught underneath the collar of her leather coat. She rubbed the sun-shaped pendant at the end of the chain.

“Our coin is limited." She faced him again, pendant still pressed between thumb and forefinger. “But I will see to it that your request is considered carefully.”

“That’s all I ask.” He leaned forward in a bow and turned on his heel, exiting her study with an authoritative cadence in his step.

Melisande looked down at the silver charm resting in her palm, the Chantry's fire all but burning in her hand.


End file.
